A Little Matter Generally Silly
by nefret24
Summary: Complete. Josh, with the help of Donna and a locksmith, finally gets freed from the bathroom. JD fluffiness ensues. Please RR.
1. Default Chapter

'A Little Matter- Generally Silly'

'A Little Matter- Generally Silly'

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers: [insert violin music here] They are not minethey will never be mine. I can only look at them from afar. They reside in those magical places where Aaron Sorkin and John Wells and NBC and Warner Bros keep them and I can only dream and hopeand write bad little stories like this [breaks down weeping]

Category: Josh/Donna, Josh POV, Humor

Summary: Josh is trapped and finds he needs his assistant's assistance. 

Author's Note: Lately I have found that there are an awful lot of stories out there having Josh and Donna and a bathroom an incredibly unusual subcategory of fanfic or maybe it's just me. So I thought, what the hell! Let's add to the multitudes and maybe there'll be a GGCA category for the phenomena- tee hee hee. BTW- the title is G&S- "My Eyes are Fully Open" from both "Ruddigore" and some versions of "PoP". And apologies to Timothy Busfield.

~~*~~~~*~~~~*~~

I am a smart man. I pride myself on my intelligence and wit. I assist the leader of the free world in decision making policies that affect the entire country- the entire globe. 

I am also very, very, _very_ unlucky. 

This is the only way to explain my present situation. 

I must be cursed. Someone must have put a voodoo-bad-karma curse on me so that while being incredibly capable and intellectual, I get mixed up into silly situations wherein I make a complete fool out of myself. 

Maybe I'm dreaming. Maybe if I pinch myself, I'll wake up and find that this is all just one big nightmare and I can go back to being the smart guy I am. 

Ow.

Nope. Very much awake. Damn. 

Did I mention I was trapped in my bathroom? Yep. No windows. One door that refuses to be moved. And me, close to weeping on my bath mat.

I can't believe this is happening. This kind of thing can only happen to people in bad movies. The sort of bad movies that I happen to adore. This is why I know that this sort of thing is restricted to the sheer lunacy that only they can conjure up. Leslie Nielsen is supposed to be trapped in his bathroom. Joshua Lyman should be receiving a medal somewhere for his leadership in creating a better world for this nation's children. 

Okay, well, he should at least be in his living room watching the Mets game.

But noooooo. 

I really shouldn't be complaining all that much. It really is my fault. See, I have this rule, well, actually, it's almost like a belief system, namely: if it ain't broke, don't fix it. And it has an addendum: if it is broke, and you can get away with a half-ass fixing job that costs either nothing or very very little, you did good. 

I've known for a very long time now that my bathroom door has been, let us say, temperamental. Possessed even. Sometimes it refuses to close. Sometimes it refuses to open- but generally, I can just jiggle the handle (hokey pokey to the left, hokey pokey to the right) and I regain my freedom.

I have yanked the handle in every direction possible and the door isn't moving an inch. 

This is one stuck door. 

At first, I thought I'd wait it out. Wait til my hands were drier, wait til both the door and myself had calmed down a bit (I had cursed at it very luridly, I admit) and try again. 

When that didn't work, I tried using different solvents to help loosen the door. So let me inform everyone for future notice- shampoo and toothpaste when poured into the keyhole of a standard bathroom door are completely ineffectual. 

I have one saving grace right now and that's my cell phone. 

Yep. It's scary I'm clairvoyant like that.

No, but really. I've taken to clipping it to my belt. Donna thinks it makes me look like a doofus ("doofus" is her word, not mine) and scoffs at me about it. A pager is one thing, but a phone apparently ruins the line of a suit. Or some other blather that she picked up from watching E! way too often.

And I decided to wear it in the privacy of my own home where I am not mocked for this perfectly acceptable fashion statement. 

So I have my phone. Help is a dial away. A few buttons to push and someone can be knocking on my door any instant.

This kind of humiliation knows no bounds. 

What am I supposed to do, call a locksmith? The fire department? CJ would love that one. It'd be doing heavy rotation on CNN: "This just in: Joshua Lyman, Deputy Chief of Staff to the President, is trapped in his bathroom. We bring you there live as firemen hack his door to pieces hoping to free the trapped politician, who in the last 24 hours has subsisted on nothing but water and 5 year old cough drops"

Yeah, she'd rip me apart. I'd never walk again. My kneecapshistory. And no amount of plastic would ever put me back together again.

So, no fire department and no CJ. Leo is definitely out and Toby would probably think it was a prank call and hang up on me.

Which leaves me with Sam.

And Donna.

See, if I call Sam, there is a likelihood that I will retain my dignity- seeing as though I've seen him in worse situations and generally I can trust him to keep his mouth shut. But he is sadly lacking in what I like to call normal logic. 

I mean, we could theorize into the night on what precise mixtures of shaving cream and mouthwash will create just enough slipperiness to unjam the door, but as far as practical measures are concerned, by the morning, I'll still be stuck in my bathroom.

See, what I need is a common sense kind of person, someone I trust, someone who can get me out of this predicament and never tell another soul, someone who has a key to my apartment.

I will not call Donna.

Admittedly, she fits the requirements but I will not, will _not_ call Donna. Where would the respect, the moral, the precious one-way balance of boss-assistant go? 

Right. I'll just call her now. Before I miss all of the Mets game.

**Ring**

**Ring**

**Riiii-

"Hello?"

"Hello."

"Josh?"

"Donna."

Long pause. Hmm I should have worked this out properly _before_ dialing written down what to saywith what? not like there's pencil and paper herecoulda written on the mirror

"Josh?" she says again.

"Don-na."

"Josh, what do you want?"

"Hmmm er, how's it goin'?" Keepin' it casual, good. Good.

"Fiiiine. And how are yoooouuuu?"

"I'm good. I'm great. Couldn't be better."

"What happened?" she sighs, with a voice that sounds as if she expects that I blew up a federal building or did something equally dumb and disastrous.

"What makes you think"

"I can tell by the inflection of your voice. What happened?"

"The inflection of my voice?"

"Yes. Josh?"

"Hmm?"

" _What_ Happened?"

"I really don't see how me calling you is indicative of anything **wrong**"

"Joshuaaaaaaa"

"While you jump to preposterous conclusions"

"Then this is a social call?"

"Yes. Er wait, no. No. This is **not** a social call." Egads, what have I done?

"Okay. Sowhat?"

"I was just callinguh, to,-"

"Josh. This is Sunday. Perhaps you've heard of this. Day of rest? Of relaxation?"

"I know what day it is-"

"Good, cuz I'd hate for you to be too disoriented when I tell you that I'm not working today. Do you know what I'm wearing right now?"

Ohmygod.

"Uh"

"Shorts, Joshua. A tank top. Cute little pink sandals that I can't wear to work. I am going to sit out on my balcony and I am going to sip ice tea and I am going to finish "P is for Peril" and there is nothing you can say to stop me."

"I'm locked in my bathroom," I blurt out.

Long pause. At least she's not laughing. I'm beginning to think maybe she dropped the phonebut then, I didn't hear a thud. Maybe she dropped it on carpeting

"I'm on my way." And she hung up on me.

Well, that's real nice, Donnatella. Don't say goodbye, or anything.

She did say she was coming though. Well, that's good. 

And bad. Shit- did I clean my living room?

I can't believe I'm worried if I cleaned my living room. It's just _Donna_. 

Donna's seen it worse. The week we nominated the FEC guys, I had stopped cleaning up all together. I was tired and the staff was tired and way too many things had been going wrong. So why bother putting away dirty laundry? 

And then I got shot. Right on the upswing too- wouldn't you know it. 

And she came and she cleaned. Cleaned like a Fury. The apartment smelled like some weird unholy mixture of Lysol and Pine Sol for weeks. Or maybe it was just a day that felt like a lot of weeks when you're weak and vulnerable and you can't escape it (it wasn't a very nice smell). So to compensate, she bought potpourri. 

Potpourri is not a manly thing to have. I scoffed at this. She tried to cheer me up by informing me that Sam had helped her pick it out- apparently, it's what _he_ keeps in his apartment.

Sam is definitely a weird, weird man. 

And I now have potpourri. It's sitting in this little glass bowl on my toilet. What a nice homey touch there. 

I could eat it if I have to stay in here much longer. 

Argh. I don't think I cleaned up. Damn damn damn. I mean, I know it's nothing she hasn't seen before, but personally I'm not comfortable with her handling my delicates, as it were (I'm pretty sure there are a couple pairs of boxers strewn around out there and god forbid she should want to exact vengeance for the whole Karen Cahill fiasco). 

I should look on the bright side. If she gets here fast, I could catch the last few innings of the game. Woo-hoo. I am the dude. 

I am now sitting on the tiled floor, leaning up against the aforementioned evil door, twirling the fringed edges of my bathmat. Yee-ha. There is an infinite amount of other things that I wish I was doing at this moment. 

I look up, fully prepared to count the tiles in the ceiling again (last time the count was 38 and I'm really not expecting a change) and I notice my radio on my shower wall. 

Ah-ha! Saved from boredom!

You might ask why I have a shower radio. My mother gave it to me as a birthday present one year, and boy, I almost got up and installed it while blowing out the candles on my cake but Ma, she's so strict- I had to wait until dessert was over.

I rationalize it's existence in case Mom drops by for a visit and that listening to NPR as you wake up is a good way to catch the news of the day.

I refuse to listen to NPR right now. If I have to hear any trumpets blaring "This is All Things Considered" right now, I will hurt someone. And since no one else is trapped in this bathroom, it's going to be me and I'm a man generally against self-violence.

So the station surfing begins!

I am an eclectic music lover. I admit that my tastes are generally broad- from classical to gansta rap. (Yes, I know that I'm a Jewish white boy from Connecticut but hey, don't be a hater)

Anyway, my point is that I happen to like James Taylor and I am not at all ashamed to admit it. Joanie had been a fan and quite frankly, the man can write lyrics. 'Nough said.

He is in going to be in Baltimore next Friday and so one of the local stations was playing the "This is Your Life" music marathon. 

So me and James were wailing on a duet of "Shower All the People With Love" when I heard a voice from the other side of the door.

"Josh?"

Shiiiiiiiiiiit. And it had to be "Shower the People." 

"Josh? Are you in there?" Donna's voice came again. She sounded funny. Maybe it's cuz my ears were ringing due to my face's dramatic color shift from normal to puce. But I swear she sounded amused. 

So I repeat: Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

I shut off the radio. I clear my throat. 

"Donna?"

"Who else are you expecting? You didn't call CJ or anything, did you?"

"No," I say sulkily. "Just you."

"Just me? And what am I, Wonderwoman? How the hell am I supposed to get you out of there- rip the door off its hinges?"

"Sounds good to me."

The handle on the door begins to rattle.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'mthe Godoof!" Thud.

"What happened?" I tried looking through the keyhole to see what was going on but it was filled with my ineffectual solvent mixture. 

"I fell down, okay?"

"You fell down?"

"I was pulling on the door, and my grip gave way and I flew back, okay? Right now, I'm far ahead of you so I wouldn't even start."

"Good point."

"There's some kind of I-don't-know-what leaking out of the keyhole."

I don't think there's a name for the color my face is right now. 

"It's like blue and then there's this yellow stuff is that toothpaste?"

"Spearmint tartar control," I mutter to the door. 

There is much giggling on the other side in response. This is bad on so many levels.

"I to know," she gasps.

"Can you possibly like, I don't know, help me here!" I yell. "Open the door!"

"I can't!"

"Try shoving it open."

"Shoving it open?"

"Or kicking it in."

"From Wonderwoman to James Bond in one flying leap," she remarked.

I heard another thud, accompanied by a violent shudder through the door. It hadn't moved.

"Try harder."

"I think I broke my shoulder."

"You didn't break your shoulder."

"I think I should sue you."

"I think you should try again."

"I am **not** doing that again. I think I've dislocated my arm," she wailed.

"You did not dislocate your arm," I whine sarcastically in return. Of course, I have no idea of what her injuries might be- the door is very evil- but I'm sure she's just overreacting.

"Gonna have a hell of a bruise though."

"Goodbye, tank tops."

"I hate you."

Great. I've alienated my rescuer. This is not good.

"Donna?"

"Yessss?" she hisses.

"It was nice of you to come out here."

"Yes. Yes it was."

"And I haven't been much of a host."

"Right again."

"I'm trapped in my bathroom! I could use a little help, a little encouragement. the silent treatment is not helping, Donnatella."

"I'm going to call a locksmith."

"What?"

"I said, I'm going to call a locksmith," she said, shouting louder at the door.

"No, no, no. That is not good. Please don't do that"

"What about your super then?"

I have a good relationship with my super. This is largely because I never speak to him. Letting Donna go down and drag him up here (bet _he's_ watching the Mets game) to help free me would ruin our dynamic. And probably raise my rent.

"No."

"Then I'm calling a locksmith."

"Fine."

"Fine."

So in the last hour, I have moved from being bored beyond tears in my bathroom, to singing in my bathroom, to sulking in my bathroom. But I have not moved from the bathroom. This is intolerable.

"He says he'll be here in an hour."

"Who?"

"The President."

"What!" Goddamn, I hope she was being sarcastic about that

"Josh, the locksmith."

"You called a locksmith?" For some reason, I can't help but think of the ending to Robin Hood: Men in Tights when Rob and Marian are screaming for one of these guys to open up her metal chastity belt. 

I told you bathrooms and bad movies mix well.

"What are you doing?" I ask the door. Well, I asked the person on the other side of the door but basically, I was more or less conversing with the doorknob which was channeling Donna's voice.

"Nuthin."

"I call you over to help me and you're doing nothing? What kind of help is that?"

"What kind of grown man gets locked in his bathroom?"

"That was harsh."

"Truth hurts, Josh."

So I resume my position on the floor against the door and recommence the twirling with the bathmat. Except now I have a relatively annoyed assistant on the other side and a stomach that's growling at me. 

"I'm hungry."

"Did you say something?" asks the doorknob aka Donna.

"I said, I'm hungry," I yell.

"Oh. I don't suppose there's anything in your fridge" I heard her footsteps- presumably she was going to look at the contents of the said appliance. But she knows as well as I do that it has only a half a can of beer, mustard, and a carton of Chinese takeout from god only knows how long ago. 

I'm not big with the cooking of food. Eating, yes (and I do like my food cooked- generally **well** done). But the whole production, no. 

Which leaves me with the potpourri. 

"Mother Hubbard could out stock you. I suppose I could call for pizza."

"I don't see how that's going "

"The locksmith will come, the pizza guy will come and then you shall eat in freedom."

"I can live with that." So I listen as she orders. She keeps repeating things over and her voice is slowly getting decibels louder and more shrill as the phone conversation wears on. 

She's spelling my address for the third time. She sounds pissed.

I hear the phone slammed down into its cradle with a viciousness that makes me wince. 

"That man could conceivably be the stupidest person on the Eastern seaboard. AUGH! I must have told him like, twenty times what _I_ wanted, and where _I_ lived I spelled it out for him!"

"I know- I heard."

"Spelled it out more than once! This had better be damn good pizza."

"I've never had a problem."

"Well, you're stuck in a bathroom, aren't you?"

Cold silence ensues. 

"So now what?" I ask sulkily.

"We wait."

"Huh."

I hear the television being turned on in the background. She's flicking stations. 

"Turn on the Mets game!" I scream, praying that she'll stop there and turn up the volume so I can at least catch a score.

"What?"

"METS GAME!"

"Oh- that ended already. Heard it on the radio- not the station _you_ were listening to, though," she remarks. I can just **see** the smirk on her face

Damn damn damn. I missed the game. I missed the game!

"Who won?"

"Who do you think? The Yankees. They were up by three in the end of the"

"Arrrrrgh." I can't believe this. I might as well be trapped in my bathroom. There's no reason for freedom anymore.

I hear Donna softly chuckling in the background. I know that this wasn't in response to anything I said- cuz I've been brooding for a few minutes on the pointlessness of rescue. 

"What are you watching?" 

"Thirtysomething."

"Not the channel, what show are you watching?"

"Thirtysomething. The Show. It's really amusing, you know. Well, at least the first season is."

"You watch thirtysomething?"

"The reruns, sure. When I can- which is like, never, cuz I've got a slavedriver of a boss."

"The boss always gets the blame."

"You know what? Danny looks a lot like that guy you know, the best friend."

"Danny Concannon?"

"Yeah- and the best friend."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know- like I said, I have this boss who expects that I work much later than is really necessary It's really weird how similar they look."

"Nah- they're nothing alike."

"You sure Danny wasn't forced into journalism when the show ended?"

"Pretty sure."

"Well, the voice of Lyman is the voice of God," she says mockingly.

"Don't you think it's a little unfair for you to be amusing yourself so blatantly while I'm trapped in here with absolutely nothing to do?"

"How about you clean? If that bathroom is anything like it was at Christmas, I'm sure there's enough soap scum to keep you occupied until the locksmith gets here."

"Har har har."

"Speaking of which, I should wipe off this goop exuding from your keyhole. I think the locksmith might take that as a bad sign, don't you?"

I hear the television shut off, and then more footsteps. The water running. Footsteps. The goop start s to be both moved in toward me- which was disgusting - and also moved out of the way to allow some visibility through the keyhole. 

I emulated her example and taking a washcloth from the tub, I washed off my part of the door. 

"There- all clean."

"What possessed you to do that?"

"It would have worked if I had gotten the right mixture"

"Riiiiight. Now my hands smell spearminty fresh. That's one powerful smelling toothpaste you've got there, Josh."

"Your teeth are your friends," I say, imitating Sam.

Donna laughs and I join her. God, that feels good. I don't think I've so much as smiled once since I got stuck in here.

As her giggles become less frequent, she says, "You know, he uses whitening toothpaste?"

"What?" I never get the good gossip. Sometimes it sucks being a boss.

"Yep. And Bonnie says he only chews that special whitening gum. You know how he likes to, you know, chew his gum and type? 'Helps the ratiocination process'? Well, one day, he ran out and Bonnie offered him some of hers and he wouldn't take it. Just wouldn't take it. And he sneaks out to get it and takes off the wrappers so nobody can tell. He told Kathy it was just some extra powerful mint gum that just came out on the market"

As she went into her explanation, I practically cried on my bathmat, choking with laughter. Sam, Mr. Perfect Smile, was so uptight that he needed whitening gum? I knew he could be vain, but come on!

"Wait, wait, wait- how does she know about the toothpaste?"

"Brush after _all_ meals, Joshua," she said mock-sternly. 

"Oh." And I couldn't help it, but I cracked up again. 


	2. Still trapped...

"I had no idea Sam had reached that level of obsession with dental care

"I had no idea Sam had reached that level of obsession with dental care."

"Believe it."

Suddenly, a hideous qualm passed through me. If Bonnie and Kathy knew all about Sam and pass it through the Assistant Gossip Hotlinewhat about me?

"I bet you guys never laughed so hard at my escapades," I say hopefully- but very casually. I hope.

"Oh, no, no, no. You could never stand to be long outdone by Sam. You have done your share of stupid and/or bizarre things at the office. And outside of the office."

"You really yuck it up, huh?" I say sourly. Man, just when I think my dignity has gone as far as it can go, some idiot opens a basement door.

Generally, that idiot is me. 

"Us gals have to find amusement **some**how, Josh," she counters. "If we couldn't laugh at it, we'd end up hating you and hating the job and quitting and then- there goes the federal government as we know it."

Hell. And what really bugs me is that she's right. Hell.

"Just promise me that you won't tell the coffee clack about this. Please?"

"It's almost too good to pass up," she says wistfully. "Forced to work on a Sunday cuz you locked yourself in your bathroom. I can hear the sympathy pour in"

"Please!" I whine.

"Okay, okay, Josh. Nobody but you, me, and Jiminy Cricket will ever know."

"Jiminy Cricket?" Man, am I confused.

"Yes. Jiminy Cricket. Who will suggest an all expense paid trip to an exotic location for your assistant to ease your suffering conscience."

"I don't think my conscience is suffering, per se"

"Yes, it is, Josh. Practically crying out with agony. Maybe a DVD player too."

"And skis?" I suggest sarcastically. 

"Also good for conscience soothing."

"You're crazy."

"Who's locked in the bathroom?"

"Okay, I'm crazy."

"Thank you."

We settled into a more affable silence. 

"This is weird," she says.

"What?"

"This. Thisquiet. I mean, generally we can't shut up. At work and stuff. You always go on and on"

"I always? You're the one who"

"I do not!"

"Do too."

"Do not!"

"DO TOO!"

"AAAUGH! All I'm saying is," she says, and I can hear her attempting poise- at least, that's her general response when I provoke her into some childish exchange like that- "we're not I don't know."

As horribly vague as she was, I know what she's talking about. At work, it's nonstop- going here, talking about one thing- moving to another thing and we never stop. We've lapsed into silence I don't know how many times since she came in. Now maybe that's the hardship of conversing through a locked door. 

Or maybe we just can't talk about anything that isn't work. Well, we can argue out side of work pretty well, but carry on a civil conversation not really. 

But then, we've never really tried.

The silence ensues.

"Elliot!"

Okay, that was weird. 

"His name is Elliot!" she says triumphantly. Like I'm supposed to know what the hell she's talking about. Random, out of the friggin blue

"The guy! The best friend who looks like Danny!" she explains happily.

"Well, I can't say that I'm thrilled at that discovery. Did they say how long it would be?"

"Who? The locksmith or the pizza moron?"

"Both."

"The locksmith should be here in abouta half hour. Who the hell knows when the pizza will get here- they'll probably get lost or lose the address or something. Funny, you would have thought they'd know you by now."

"Very funny, Donnatella," I remark wryly.

"I don't think I'm going to make it."

"Don't be silly. Of course you are. It's not like the toilet's overflowing or something and you have only minutes before the bathroom fills with water and you perish in a watery albeit above ground grave."

"Geez, you have a lurid imagination."

"It's a gift."

Great. Now I can't stop worrying about the toilet. Just great. 

I start to pace the length of the room, which is negligible, let me remind everyone. Which, of course, adds to my general frustration. 

I pause in front of the toilet, not so much fixed on the plumbing now but more on the potpourri. God, I'm hungry.

"I'm going to eat this potpourri," I announce.

"What! Why?" 

"Because I need nourishment," I reply, taking the bowl into my hands and beginning to sort through the different little thingys that make up potpourri.

"Josh-you really shouldn't -" cried out a worried voice all too late.

One red prickly thing later and I'm spitting out flecks of God-knows-what into the toilet. Ugh.

"It has perfume on it- it's not meant to be taken internally," I can hear amidst soft giggles from the other side of the door. "Are you okay?"

"No," I say truthfully, scraping my tongue with my fingernails. Ick. Never ever again. No matter how bad it gets- I'll eat toothpaste first. Then only if the sole alternative is cannibalism- will I resort to potpourri. 

"Stupid idea, Josh." Yeah. Like I don't know that _now_.

"When is the damn pizza coming?" I yell, frustrated with the mountain fresh scent on my tongue. Water. Lots of water. 

As I stick my head under the faucet, I hear her reply with distinct consonance: "I. Don't. Know."

"Whaddaya mean-"

"They didn't condescend to tell me," she interrupts. "I practically had to beg them to tell me how much it would cost."

"I'm going to call them," I say ceremoniously, wiping the water off my chin and unclipping the phone from my belt. 

"Oh, goody."

One punch of the autodial. Luigi's is a preprogrammed call. For all those snickering, you better cut it out now. Remember- the IRS works for me.

After conversing several minutes with a man neither Italian nor American (well, I can at least say with the utmost confidence that English is his second language-whatever his native tongue is well, that's another kettle of fish), I got them to tell me that the pizza in all its cheesy glory was en route as we spoke. 

"So there."

"This is not over, Joshua. Just you wait. Something. Something will go wrong."

"Hah!" I scoff.

After that point, something clicked. It's like we regained our momentum, and that last small push, sent us spinning merrily in our normal banter circles. 

We were having a great debate on Coke versus Pepsi ("Next Generation" my ass), when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it!" Donna says in a sing-song voice while I continue to expostulate the virtues of Coca-cola, the All American drink.

I hear voices in the background murmuring. Please oh please be the locksmith

My door slams and loud, harsh footsteps are pounded into my hardwood floors. 

"You will **not** believe this!"

"What? Who was it? Was it the locksmith?"

"This is unbelievable! Un-be-frickin-lievable!"

"What is? What's going on?" I whine, staring intently through the keyhole to no avail.

"The pizza guy."

Damn.

"Comes all the way to the door- to the door!- very rudely tells me the price- and not the one they gave me over the phone- and then, get this, he opens that thing, you know, that they carry the pizza in and it keeps it all warm and fresh?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know about the thing, so what?" I say impatiently. Goddamn it, why can't I smell the pizza? I'm vigorously sniffing the door and I can't smell it. The potpourri has damaged my sense of smell forever. Reduced to four senses in one day

"He _forgot_ the pizza!"

"He what?"

"He **for**-*got* the pizza. Left it at the shop. All the way to the frickin door!"

"Didn't he register the weight?"

"What?" she stopped her angry tirade and the stomping.

"Couldn't he feel the difference? Of the bag thingy, you know, without a pizza?"

"Apparently not."

Then I start to laugh. Really laugh too. Because Donna is royally pissed over what is probably the stupidest thing she's ever witnessed (and that includes me being locked in the bathroom) and quite frankly, it's a funny thing. I mean, come on. He forgot the pizza? I defy even Jim Abrahams and the Zucker Brothers to beat that one (yes, I own both Airplane! movies and I'm not ashamed to admit it). 

I am controlling the biggest urge right now to ask Donna: "Surely you can't be serious?"

Seriously. (And my name ain't Shirley either- ba bump _ching_!)

There must be a full moon tonight. Gotta be. What kind of weird arrangement of the cosmos could possibly cause this outbreak of sheer lunacy, all converging at this one place, namely, my apartment? In the space of three hours, my life has turned into a Mel Brooks movie. 

I thought it would be cooler than this. 

Donna is not amused. Though at one point, I did hear her join in giggling, but she's more of a serious movie lover- I'm talking chick flicks, period movies and Roger Ebert's personal choices- and I don't think she appreciates the great potential for bad jokes. 

I really should do something about that.

"Donna, one of these days I'm going to make you watch all the Naked Gun movies so that you can improve your sense of humor."

"What did I do to merit such a horrible sentence?"

"See? Not funny. Frank Dresden. Funny."

"Or not. And I shall have you know I have a great sense of humor."

"Except when it comes to the pizza guy," I scold.

"Yes. Except when it comes to the pizza _friggin' idiot_," she conceded. "Uh, Josh?" she goes on, this time in a hesitant voice that sounds much closer to the door.  
"What?" I ask, suspicious.

"I have to go-"

"Go? Where? Why?" I interrupt. "You're not leaving me here all alone, are you?"

"It'll only be for a few minutes"

"Why? What could be so important?" 

"I have to go to the bathroom," she mumbled.

"YouHave to go to the bathroom?" I repeat slowly and incredulously.

"Yes."

"Can it wait?" Geez, of all the times to have to go! If she leaves, the locksmith and the pizza guy will probably both choose that particular moment to show up, knock on the door, receive no answer and depart, leaving me still stuck in a bathroom and hungry.

"Josh. I've been **waiting** quite a while now and I think that my bladder is going to explode."

"Your bladder isn't going to explode."

"How do you know?"

"Bladders don't explode," I say confidently, with the air of George Clooney.

"Oh, ye of little faith! Remember Tycho Brahe!" she says, with the air of Daniel Boone. Or is it Davy Crockett? One of those Alamo guys. 

"Who?"

"Tycho Brahe- you know, one of those astronomers you constantly lecture me about."

"I do not-"

"You do too-"

"Which one?"

"The guy with no nose."

"Oh, yeah, him." Realization finally dawns. "He was a mathematician."

"Same difference. **His** bladder exploded."

"No, no, no. Pure myth."

"Suuuuuure."

"Unsubstantiated fiction."

"Josh, I am having a _situation_ out here," she wails piteously.

"I'm still stuck in a _situation_" I retort grumpily.

"Josh, before I was just going to go to a nearby gas station. Now, I'm going to the Mooners," she says in her Mean Donna/ Threatening Voice.

"No- please, Donna, not my neighbors- please!"

"Goodbye, Josh."

As the exterior door slams, I shout, "You shouldn't have drunk so much damn ice tea!" but somehow, I don't think she heard me. Just as well. 

Erg. It's not that I dislike my neighbors. They're a very nice elderly couple- the Mrs is active at church bingo and Mooner himself votes Democrat. She brought me cookies after she heard I was shot. They don't talk to me much (probably because I'm never home) but when they corner me.

First, it's a thorough delineation of the weather. Then a health update on not only themselves, but of their family, close personal friends, and people they met that day on the bus. And it always ends with subtle hints about how I'm such a nice young man who ought to settle down with a nice young lady. 

Harmless. But I try to avoid them as much as possible. 

Donna would fit their idea of a nice young lady. 

I never want to see them again. Ever.

Oh god, and if they get to talking about the humidity this past week- it could be hours.! Oh why did I have to open my big mouth! 

What seems like eons later, I hear her come in. "I'm ba-ack," she calls.

"I'm leaving you out of my will," I say sulkily.

"Oh, damn, and I really coveted that extensive video collection of yours, too. Mrs. Mooner says hello. Her husband was out getting groceries," she says, but her speech pattern is not as smooth as usual.

"Are you eating something?"

"She was baking. Cookies. Nice, warm, chocolate chipcookies," she says seductively, very close to the door. I think I can hear her licking her lips. 

I think I'm drooling. 

Yep. I am. 

"I brought one back for you too. Though you don't deserve it."

"Can I have it?" I ask nicely, wiping my mouth.

"What am I supposed to do, shove it through the keyhole?"

"Slide it under the door- it's flat."

"It's also edible- which it won't be after sliding around on your grungy floor."

"Come on, my apartment isn't that bad."

"Josh- no!" she laughs.

"Come on, slide it under the door."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," I hear her mutter, and seconds later, a nice chocolate chip cookie appears on my bathroom tiles. 

It's a bit dusty, I admit. But still _edible_. 

Damn, it was good. Probably would have been better without my hair on it- I don't even want to think about the number of hair follicles I've ripped out in the last few hours- but still, very very good.

"Are you eating it?"

"Hmmmmpfh," I say through a mouthful of chocolate chip delightfulness.

"I can't believe you're eating it! That's disgusting!"

"I'm starving in here."

"You're not starving. You're over reacting."

"I'm hypoglycemic."

"You're a pain in the ass when you haven't eaten."

"Same difference."

Now without anything to put into my mouth, it's back to the sitting and twirling with the bathmat. This is becoming tedious. 

"I wish I had one of Toby's rubber balls," I say wistfully.

"I thank my lucky stars you **don't** have one of Toby's rubber balls," she counters.

"Why? Afraid I'll hurt myself?"

"No. Why should I worry about that?" I can practically hear her grinning. "It's annoying as hell, that's why."

"Thank you for the overwhelming concern," I say wryly.

"You're welcome."

That's when this little voice started to perk up, practically screaming for me to turn on the radio to hear the rest of the James Taylor thing. Maybe I wouldn't miss "Mexico."

But in the light of the person on the other side of the doorwho of course, must remain impressed with me, even under such circumstances as this is, maybe that wasn't the best idea. Especially after the "Shower the People" fiasco.

But it was awfully quiet out there. Hmmm.

"Whatcha doin'?" I ask in my most indifferent, casual, everyday, upbeat kinda way. 

She doesn't reply immediately which is bad. This means she's asleep or dead or doing something she shouldn't and needs time to come up with a plausible lie

"Nuthin.'"

Oh, yeah right.

The silence continues. I press my ear to the door and still nothing. 

Suddenly, it hit me.

"Are you cleaning?"

"Me? Clean? No. No! I'm not your maid, Josh."

"Donnatella Moss, don't lie to me, are you cleaning out there?"

"Well, maybe a little. Just enough so I can see the furniture and possibly even clear a space to sit down"

"Goddamn it! You're cleaning!" I yell. "Didn't you promise not to do that anymore?"

"I don't recall saying anything of the kind"

"You did too! You stood right there in the kitchen and surrendered the mop to me and said, 'I promise not to clean anymore.' "

"Should have gotten it in writing."

"Should haveI didn't _need_ to- it was a binding verbal agreement"

"Did I swear this oath on a Bible or with any witnesses present?" she inquired in a sickeningly sweet voice.

"No," I bark out. "But under the circumstances"

"Then it's not a 'binding verbal agreement.' And you really need to buy some new socks cuz all the ones I'm picking up have holes in them."

"Do not."

"Do too. I'm putting my finger in a gaping hole right now."

"Why are you cleaning?" I sigh, holding my head in my hands, fighting an urge to tear out all of my hair. Who knows, I may need to have all my food pushed to me underneath the door if that locksmith doesn't show up in the next week. Why is this taking so long? Why does she have to mess with my stuff? Why will I now feel guilty and spend my hard earned money on socks?

I start to bang my head solemnly against the door frame. This is not helping. But then, I'm pretty sure Stanley said it was stress relieving if you stood up _against_ the door- **not** if your pounded your brains out on it. 

"There. All done," she says triumphantly.

I manage a moan between whacks. My head is beginning to hurt. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to have a dent in my forehead for the rest of my life. What will my fan club say about that? "Oh that Josh Lyman, he was such a hottie during the first two years of the administrationuntil he got that Grand Canyon on his forehead" 

I want to get up and shout "I'm mad as hell and I can't take it anymore!" but I think Donna will mock me if I do. 

So I turn on the radio again in complete defiance of Donna's lecture on how to prevent dust bunnies from accumulating underneath my sofa.

_'I remember Richard Nixon back in '74_

And the final scene at the White House door

And the staff lined up to say goodbye-' 

James begins to blast once again- one of my personal favs, by the way. So, unabashedly I sing along. 

I can sing, you know. I did the talent show circuit as a kid- I can carry a tune and work a crowd. I still like to find the spotlight every now and again, but I don't make the singing thing public knowledge. Most people that know are the ones who've seen me drunk. I sing a lot when inebriated- at least, that's what they tell me. 

Donna's heard me sing before. But it wasn't until halfway through the song- somewhere around "I've seen corn in Kansas" that I heard _her_. Singing. 

It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard. Not really a trained voice, but one that could find a pitch and you know, stick with it through an entire song. This soft gentle voice calmly groovin' along It was comfortingly familiar- like I had heard it all the time in my sleep but never put a face to the voice. 

God, am I getting saccharine. I started off in some kind of farce only to end up in a Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan movie. Sooner or later, I'm going to be shouting Nora Ephron platitudes and listening to Jimmy Durante. 

This has got to stop. 

I shut off the radio again.

"Hey! What'd ya do that for? I like that song." Donna says indignantly.

"You're not old enough to appreciate the song," I grumble.

"Neither are you."

"Well, I'm closer than you are. Were you even alive in '74?"

"No."

"Case in point."

"It doesn't matter. I can still like the song."

"Fine!" I say, trying my best to be the anti-Hanks. 

Then miracle of miracles, the doorbell rang. 

I sit down on the floor again in silence, sulking and being in a general bad disposition in a hopeless attempt to channel James Cagney or similar non romantic type guy but am thwarted cuz my head keeps replaying Donna's singing voice. 

"Mr., uh, Lyman? Are you in there?" says a gruff voice on the other side of the door.

That is so not Donna.

"Yeah?" I call out, making my presence known and practically leaping up from the floor. 

"Uh, I'm Joe from Persons?" Persons, Persons?? A place that sells people?? What?? Persons

"The locksmith!" I say, suddenly deliriously happy.

"Yeah- so, um you're locked in then?"

"Uh, ye-es," I say slowly, wondering if my locksmith has the intellectual capacity to free me from my bathroom prison. 

"Okay then."

Oh please, oh please, Donna, show this man the keyhole. Help him to realize my plight. Whack him over the head with something heavy in order to jump start his brain

"Would you like some water?" Donna sweetly asks. And she ain't addressing me. That is not what you do. You tell him to frickin' get me out of here and then you can dispense beverages!

Obviously, Donna does not know the correct procedure for this particular situation. 

But then, she is here and the locksmith is here and I'm assuming that I will be freed soon and then all will be well. Calm down, Lyman. Breathe in, breathe out

The door is shaking again. Joe from Persons is shaking my door. 

I hope he has better idea for getting me out of here. And I hope it will result with both my door and my person in one piece. 

"Thank you, ma'am. That," he says, before I presume taking a sip of his nice refreshing glass of water, "door is really stuck."

Joe the Nuclear Physicist Who Moonlights as a Locksmith really hit the nail on the head with that statement there, didn't he? 

For all you who can hear my inner monologue- a group of people who I sincerely hope doesn't include my mother or the President- I apologize for being sosnippy. I am generally a very genial person. I am sure that you know this. But being trapped in a bathroom does things to a generally sane man. It brings him to the brink. He might even be tempted to eat potpourri. A serious predicament, in other words, since, as we all know, one cannot eat potpourri. Not without repercussions

They're murmuring on the other side of the door. I can't understand what they're saying but they're talking and I think they're talking about me. And I don't think they're discussing my better points either. 

The door shakes again. It's beginning to freak me out- like there's some kind of weird earthquake/exorcist thing happening to my door. I move myself to the opposite end of the bathroom. When the green shit starts to fly, I want to be as far away from the source as possible.


	3. FREEDOM!

Author's Note: Sorry about the long wait. And apologies to all who truly are G&S aficionados cuz yes, (Eolivet, kudos to you) the line really is "if I were not a little MAD and generally silly." Whatever. Anyway, they talk fast and the whole thing is a farce. The main JT song used in this part is "Something in the Way She Moves" cuz I'm a sap (though I hate to admit it). BTW, not making the whole pizza thing up- happened to me- grrrrr!- which is why I now hate Pizza Hut. 

{Voices in the background} Enough of this idle persiflage! Let's help Josh get unstuck already!

****

**Sigh** All right, all right already! Sheesh. On with the show :P

~*~*~*~*~*~

And then, abruptly, the shaking stopped. The apartment was eerily quiet. Leaning my head against the door, I tried to hear what, if anything, was going on. 

Quiet. More quiet. Muffled what is that? Giggles? Has to be Donna. What can be funny?

"What's happening now?" I whine, trying the knob again. And then the answer came to me, so to speak. The knob came off in my hands, missing a notable portion of itself. 

"This isn't good," Joe said, brilliantly.

"DONNA!" I scream, cuz I have to vent somehow and screaming at Joe could only result in him losing more IQ points- if that were possible. Besides, **she** called the locksmith- couldn't she at least find one that was competent?

"This," she said, her voice shaking with very ill disguised laughter, "is not my fault."

"Joe, could you possibly excuse us for two seconds?" I ask in a poisonously polite voice and lower myself down so I can see through the gaping hole where the doorknob had been. 

"Uh" I saw him standing there absently twiddling with the knob and then obviously with some kind of visual confirmation from Donna- the hole was only **so** big- he moved away from the door.

A flash of pink and some blond hair later, I saw Donna's eye peering at mine through the hole. "What now, Josh?"

"This is not working," I hissed. "Joe the Harvard Man over there is not helping!"

"Josh- he just got here- give the man a break!"

"Look-" And before I could expostulate any further, the doorbell rang. 

"Hold that obnoxious thought," she said with a smirk and left, presumably to answer the door. 

I gripped the ends of my hair with my hands and tugged hard. I've bitten down on my lip so that I don't scream "I'm surrounded by fools!" or "You can't get good help these days!" or some other screwball comedy villain's cliché. The fools one is better- I could do it in a Russian accent or like Tim Curry

And what the hell is going on out there? Looking through the hole in my door is not helping. Can't see shit. Why is it that the two of them are off answering doors and drinking water and whatever while I am trapped, **trapped** in here, no way out! I outrank them. Why?? Why??

Wait a minute

I smell it. Pizza. 

Oh my my my. Thick crust, toppings to the edge, ooey-gooey gotta-stretch-me cheese I can visualize it perfectly. And smell it in all its wonderful edibleness. 

I glare at the door. It's your fault, I telepath to it. Got that, evil demon door? All. Your. Fault.

My stomach echoes this with a grumble. God am I hungry. 

"DON-NAAAAA!!!"

Exasperated footsteps, stomping loudly on my hardwood floors, each punctuated with an echo of its own, reach my ears. Donna's eye returns to the keyhole. 

"Joshua."

"I take it the pizza came."

"Amazing but true."

"And I know that was the pizza guy cuz I heard him and I can smell it."

"Lose a sense, enhance the rest?"

"Something like that." I let out a frustrated sigh, making sure that it's ostentatiously loud. "Will you please tell what was his name?"

"Joe."

"Would you please tell **Joe** to get his ass over here and open this door before I do something drastic?"

"And how would you define and delimit 'drastic'?" 

I don't have to see it to know that she's smirking at me. "I will have him audited by the IRS and strip-searched by the NSA." 

"Can the NSA strip search people?"

"I- They- Just- AUGH! Get him NOW please?" I am too angry to speak. Can't articulate anymore- can just make grr-ing noises and rip at my hair.

"Yes, Your Highness-Ness." 

A few seconds later, a new eyeball peers back at me from the other side of the door. It's got a perfectly hideous pair of glasses in front of it that look like the spyglass I used to fry ants with when I was little. 

"Mr. Lyman?"

"Yes. That would be me, the guy trapped in the bathroom."

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, preferably all of you, in a speedily manner." No reaction. Small words, I chide myself. Use small words. "I **wanted** to get out of here."

"Right. Well, I've been thinking"

Oh dear God.

"that maybe what we need to do in this type of situation is try a old hand's trick."

"Which perchance would be what?" 

"Push really hard."

Great. Just great. I should have called Sam. He at least would have slipped me the pizza underneath the door by now. Hell, he might have gotten me out by now

WHACK!

Pain. Lots and lots of pain. The bathroom is spinning, why is the bathroom spinning? I thought the door was the problem, the floor had seemed fine. Head throbbing- why is my head thumping like that? It doesn't usually do that

Wait- dear God now I've lost my vision. All I see is magenta. Erg. Help, the locksmith made my floor topsy-turvy and me blind. 

"Help," I croak.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, sorry, sorry" I hear far away.

"Josh? Josh can you hear me?" 

Well, would you look at that? Donna. In the flesh and on my side of the door. It's a vision, I know it is. Now I'm friggin' hallucinating. Pink, more pink- goddamn what is wrong with me? Why won't my eyes work right?

"Donna."

"Oh, Josh, are you okay??" she asks with a very concerned look on her face. She's biting her lower lip and she has that really cute wrinkle in her brow.

"How did you manage to squeeze through the keyhole?" I ask the apparition, baffled. Some of the pink has slowly diminished- she wasn't kidding when she said she was wearing a cute little tank top

"Josh. The door's open. Look."

Well, whaddya know? I glance over at the door and behold! Can see into the living room. And can see Joe, who is still saying "I'm sorry."

"The door's open," I repeat, amazement in my voice. 

"Josh, how many fingers am I holding up?" the apparently very real Donna asks, waving two fingers in front of my face.

"Eleven," I retort, struggling to prop myself up on my own against the bathtub.

"Josh," she warns.

"Two. Happy?"

"Well, at least the brain damage isn't total," she smirks and sits back on her heels, watching me. She sighs, as if to say, "I can't believe what I must put up with," and stands up, extending me a hand.

"Come on, breathe the air of freedom," she intones.

My reply is a glare. Mock my pain, Donnatella. I get to my feet without her help and stagger to the kitchen, straight to the pizza. I take a large bite out of one slice and feel sufficiently revived to face the locksmith, who has finally gotten up the courage to approach me.

"Some old trick," I say wryly, rubbing my neck.

"Heh heh, yeah," he half-laughs and gives me a small sheet of paper. 

"FIFTY-SEVEN DOLLARS?!?! For merely whacking my door really hard??? You're charging me $57????"

"It's- it's - it IS a Sunday," he stutters back.

"You nearly bludgeoned me to death and now you want fifty-seven dollars???"

"Well, I am very sorry about that but"

"I have a lump, I think," I say, feeling the sore half of my head. "Look at that- do you see a lump?"

"You're gonna have a mighty fine lookin' bruise, there, sir, but"

"Fifty-seven dollars!!" Cannot she see the extortion at work?

"Josh," Donna's voice breaks in.

"Fifty-seven dollars!" I point at Joe. Maybe she was unsure as to whom was the injuring party here. Attack him!

"Yes, Josh. Pay the man."

She had to be kidding. "Fifty-seven dollars!" I reply angrily.

"Yes. Pay him that and let him be on his way." Eek. She's looking at me sternly now- she's got her Power Donna face on. If there is one thing I have learned, painfully, yet surely, you don't mess with Donna when she's got the Power Donna face on. You go down and it's ugly.

"Fifty-seven dollars," I mutter, pointedly and angrily at Joe, who having received his payment, at least had the graciousness to run out of the apartment as fast as was politely possible. Not a breakneck speed, but close.

"I think I have whiplash," I mutter.

"I wouldn't be surprised," she replied, helping herself to a piece of my pizza.

"And yet you made me pay him-"

"Fifty seven dollars. Yes. I got that. Because he fixed your door, got you out and it's your own damn fault for sitting in front of it after he told you what he meant to do. Besides," she said, twirling a loose strand of cheese around her finger, "you deserved it after the nasty remarks you made."

"I wasn't nasty."

"Yes you were and that was your comeuppance."

"My comeuppance?"

"Your comeuppance."

"Donna, you know, the things that come out of your mouth" I begin, shaking my head and reaching for a piece of well-deserved pizza.

"Yes?" she hisses. 

I look up and see that maybe that last statement wasn't too smart. The pizza pauses en route to my mouth. "They're they're unique and quaint and I am so very privileged that you share these tidbits with me on a Sunday?"

She smiles and takes a bite and I realize I have been left off the hook. Big inner sigh of relief. 

"You know what you need?" she says after a few moments of comfortable chewing silence.

"A drink. A good stiff drink. Perhaps several good stiff drinks," I reply.

"I can do you one better," she grins and gets up to go the fridge. Didn't think I still had anything to drink in there but maybe she got something? Then to my surprise, she doesn't open the fridge but goes right to the freezer. She pulls out a small ice pack- came free with an order of hamburgers a few months ago.

"What the hell is that fff-" was all I managed before half of my head went numb as she pressed it against my cranium.

"Ow, ow, ow!"

"Oh, stop being such a big baby. It's only ice. You're going to have quite the bruise there, buster."

"I think I'll take my chances. It didn't bother me til you decided to freeze my face."

"Awww. Too bad," she says completely without remorse. 

"Where is the sympathy? Where's that Florence Nightingale sweet bedside manner?"

"Promptly dismissed in favor of efficiency."

"Cruel woman."

"Impervious."

I glare at her and she raises an eyebrow as if to say, "give me your best shot, you weak little man." So I glare at her some more and eat some more pizza, cultivating what I hope is an oppressive silence. Though it is becoming more difficult to eat with half of my jaw going numb.

"Can't I take this off now?" 

"Will you stop whining? It's only been a couple minutes and it's for your own good."

Grr. Change of subject. "Why are you still here again?"

Donna's face falls. God, I really must have whacked my head hard cuz I am just saying the most inconsiderate things tonight, aren't I? She recovers quickly (obviously chalking it up to brain damage or my habitual verbal abuse) and merely says, "Just to make sure you don't kill yourself before beddy-bye time," before shoving more pizza into her mouth.

The pizza disappears and she gets up to put the box in the trash, folding it and ripping it so that it fits in the tiny excuse for a trash can that I have in my kitchen. 

"Donna" I begin, clearing my throat. "Thank you."

"Josh, it's nothing, I clean up after you all the time at work too."

"Not about the box, Donna! For for everything. For today. For calling that miserable excuse for a locksmith. For staying with me."

"Oh Josh," she says, her eyes wide and the corners of her mouth turning up into the beginnings of a smile. Before it makes its way to full blown grin, she quickly covers it and says, "Well you know, I expect to be lucratively reimbursed."

And there it is. Grin from ear to ear.

"No DVD player," I say putting my foot down.

"Then it's a trip to Hawaii right?"

"You'd be especially lucky if you get reimbursed for the gas you used to come over here."

"Figures. Cheapskate."

"Hey, I fed you!" 

"Technically, I fed _you_ as you haven't paid me back yet."

"Oh- haven't I?" I say, half rising my seat to fish out my wallet. I pull out a twenty and hand it to her. "Your money, Donnatella."

"No more?" she says, looking expectantly.

"Don't push it."

"Right," she mutters to her purse as she puts the cash away and pulls out her keys. "Promise me you will not close that bathroom door until it's properly fixed and that you will endeavor not to fall down or let yourself be pinned to the floor with something heavy between now and tomorrow."

Throwing the ice pack in the sink, I think I make a pretty indignant picture. "Really, Donna! I'm a grown man! I can handle myself - been doing pretty fine up to now"

"And then you got yourself locked in the bathroom. Promise me, Joshua. It's the least you can do."

Sigh. With eyes like those, no one in their right mind could refuse "I promise I won't close the door."

"Until you get it properly fixed which you are going to do starting tomorrow," she amended.

"Yes."

"Good. I'm going now. I mean it, Josh, I'm not coming back to move a bookshelf off you so "

"Donna!"

"Be good. See you tomorrow."

She leaves and I sit on my couch, staring at the blank screen of the TV. I don't deserve her- not as an assistant, not as a friend and not as well, anything else. I am so damn lucky- no wonder I get so thrown off by misadventures like today. 

Suddenly, I remember the radio show. Rising, I get up to go to the stereo to try and find it again. 

Crackle crackle crackle.

"And if I'm well you can tell she's been with me now,

She's been with me now quite a long, long time

And I feel fine"

Damn. It's like the radio gods and me are on the same wavelength. Eerie. I go back to the couch and close my eyes, not thinking about the loss of fifty-seven dollars, or my throbbing head, or my knobless door or my missed Mets game 

"It isn't what she's got to say

But how she thinks and where she's been

To me, the words are nice, the way they sound"

Pink is a good color for her. She looked really nice- like she could have really been enjoying one of the last days of summer before I made her haul herself over here to sit on the other side of the door. Even just talking to her on the phone, just hearing the sound of her voice, was enough to ground me. Make me less hysterical and frantic. How the hell does she do that?

"I like to hear them best that way

It doesn't much matter what they mean

If she says them mostly just to calm me down"

Donna must be SuperGirl in disguise. Can she fly, I wonder? Can Lois Lane, after being so mean spirited to Clark, ever regain the lost time? (Something in the back of my brain is wondering why I'm thinking in Superman metaphors but the front half responds with: "I've had a hard day. Lighten the hell up.") 

"Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning

And I find myself careening

Into places where I should not let me go"

A memory stirs. Wait a minute the singing in the bathroom Donna's voice. I've heard that before, I know I have. And now I think I know where and when I heard it. 

She used to stay with me when I was recovering, make sure I made it to bed alright, waited til I was sleeping before she would go home so I wouldn't hurt myself or do something stupid when on medication and in extreme pain. I was always half out of it anyhow by that time

She sang me to sleep.

"She has the power to go where no one else can find me

And to silently remind me

Of the happiness and the good times that I know"

She needs a present. Maybe I'll bring her flowers tomorrow. So as the song ends I get up to find a phone book to ask a florist what kind of flowers grow in Hawaii.

FIN.

Please Review. 

Nefret_24@hotmail.com


End file.
